No More Learning

The translator's task is indeed a difficult one,
one calling for versatile abilities. He must find the
phrase that will contain the spirit as well as tran-
scribe the fact. He must be en rapport not only
with the language itself but with the milieu of that
language, must be a part of its vitality, so to speak,
and understand and know its contemporaneous sig-
nificance. One generation does not fully under-
stand the literature of another of the same tongue
without more or less copious annotations, which are
in themselves a kind of translation. We can't read
Chaucer without a glossary, nor Shakespere without
notes. How then shall one nation comprehend an-
other without annotations, or one age grasp an-
other without such illumination. A good translation
is a kind of condensed and concatenated annotation.
After all, we keep on translating whether we know
it or not, all the time. There isn't much new knowl-
edge; there's just a lot of fresh thinking about old
subjects. And each generation keeps on translating
the thoughts of the last into its own vernacular.
Hence arises the need of new translations of old
classics. Virgil translated for the seventeenth cen-
tury might not be just Virgil to the twentieth, and
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? CATULLUS 17
we see Homer with glasses colored by a somewhat
different experience from that of Pope. It is not
strange, therefore, if we should want to make our
own translations.
Catullus has something different for us from what
he has had for any other people at any other time,
and so we want to interpret him in our own way.
That people keep on translating Catullus is rea-
son enough why they should. He has something
for them or they wouldn't take the trouble. That
a writer does live is reason enough for his immor-
tality. It is to be expected that he have a sort of
vogue, a rise and wane of popularity. Ages are dif-
ferent, and one age's vogue is another's aversion.
Next to Horace, Catullus seems to us the most
modern of the ancients -- that is, if there is any most.
They are all contemporaries when we get acquainted
with them. It is amazing to find out how
modern all these writers are, which is just
another way of saying how ancient human nature
is. "As it was in the beginning, is today official
sinning," chants Mr. Kipling, "and shall be for-
evermore. " It is this continuity of human nature
that gives us a friendly feeling for the classics. All
the big feelings are the same, and the little ones
aren't so surprisingly different; rather they are sur-
prisingly alike. Common follies strike quicker sym-
pathies than common virtues; congenial foibles and
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? 1 8 CATULLUS
superficial graces offer a readier intimacy than fun-
damental principles. We can weep with anybody.
Grief is universally the same; but we laugh only
with those who understand. It is just here that
Catullus is so "modern. " He saw the grace in
things, in manners, customs, fashions, politics and
society. In short, for all the intimacies of daily liv-
ing he had a quick eye and a felicitous phrase. Not
only did he feel the passion and pathos of life, but
he was keenly sensitive to all the nuances of light
and graceful feeling, and it is in delicate apprecia-
tion of the finer sentiments that Catullus excels.
His incite is less profound than that of Horace but
it is more subtle. Keenly alive, quiveringly sensi-
tive to all that touches a human being in emotional
experience, he had pre-eminently what Burns would
have called sensibility. And he is like Burns, too,
has more in common with him than with any other
lyric poet, unless it be Shelley. In life he was cir-
cumstanced more like Shelley, a gentleman in birth
and breeding, well educated and wealthy, in spite of
the "cobwebs" in his purse, the result rather of
extravagance than poverty. In temperament he was
more like Burns, wild and turbulent in passion,
fierce in love and relentless in hate. And when he
took to satire and invective he out-Burnsed Burns.
At times he was so coarse, brutal, and indecent it
is hard to believe he could ever be gentle, graceful,
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? CATULLUS 19
and noble. However, we must remember the age
allowed excesses of speech we would not tolerate. By
nature he was intense, yet simple and ingenuous;
by education, refined, sensitive, and exquisite. Love
was at once with him a mighty passion and a deli-
cate sentiment. While he touched the superficial
graces -- and disgraces -- of living in a half playful
tone, life was to him always a tremendous emotion.
A mo et odi, he sang, and this was the index of his
temperament. There was nothing lukewarm about
him. He loved his friends and hated his enemies --
joyed with the mad rush of a mountain torrent and
sorrowed with the weight of a deep sea dirge. Per-
haps no one can write lyric poetry who does not live
intensely.
Few facts are known of the life of C. Valerius
Catullus. He was born at Verona, or near there,
about B. C. 84 and died at Rome thirty years later.
The dates of his birth and death are variously giveii^
but the divergence is not wide. B. C. 87-84 for the
birth; B. C. 57-54 for the death. He was con-
temporary with Cicero and Lucretius.
There is reliable evidence that he was of good
family, since his father was the friend and host of
Caesar; that he had wealth, for he owned a yacht
and two or three country estates, a villa at Sirmio
and another on the edge of the Sabine hills. At an
early age he went to Rome where he mingled with
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? 20 CATULLUS
the gay and extravagant society of the period. Here
he found many friends, notably Cornelius Nepos
to whom he presented his volume of lyrics in the
graceful little dedicatory poem, Cicero, FabuUus
and Veranius, and chiefest in his own eyes and
closest to his heart, Licinius Calvus, a young poet
like himself, to whom he adressed some of his most
charming verses. (XIV, LIII, XCVI).
When he was about twenty-six years of age, he
went to Bithynia on the staff of C. Memmius who
was propraetor of the province. It was on taking
leave of this province that, stirred by the wander-
lust of youth and spring, he wrote the exquisite little
lyric numbered XLVI. And the greeting to "fair
Sirmio" celebrated his return home in lines no less
beautiful. Sensitive to every shade of emotion as he
was, it is not strange that he should have written
feelingly of both extremes. Those who best know
Wanderlust best know^ Heimweh.
It was likely too, on his journey to Bithynia, that
he visited the tomb of his brother in the Troad,
that brother so deeply loved and so tenderly mourn-
ed in many of his verses and chiefly in the Apos-
trophe at his grave (CI). In all elegiac literature
is there nobler affection or deeper grief told so
briefly and so simply as in these lines?
Perhaps the most conspicuous and indubitable fact
of the life of this poet was his love for a certain
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? CATULLUS 21
Roman lady whom he calls Lesbia and who, the
critics think, was Clodia, the wife of Q. Metellus
Celer and the sister ot the notorious P. Clodius Pul-
cher. Whoever the lady actually was is of rather
little moment as far as the poetry is concerned.
Sufficient to say she inspired Catullus with an over-
mastering passion which fluctuated between heights
of bliss and depths of woe, finally culminating in
complete despair when he was convinced of her
faithlessness.
It is not because Catullus loved Lesbia that we
are interested in her, but because this experience
taught him to write love lyrics of surpassing beauty.
And here, just a word about "internal evidence,"
that scholarly temptation to unrighteousness. It
is amazing how men otherwise honest will turn
their imaginations loose on "internal evidence" and
deduce therefrom the most egregious lies in the
shape of specific facts. Internal evidence should be
taken, in the main, for evidence internal; i. e. , an
evidence of the internal life of the writer and not as
a witness of his outward acts and relationships. That
a poet writes one or more love lyrics to fifty dif-
ferent Lydias and Phyllises does not prove in the
least that he has as many mistresses, nor even that
all or any of such lyrics were written to particular,
women. Nor does it necessarily imply that he was
fickle or constant. All that it actually proves, with-
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? 22 CATULLUS
out Indubitable circumstantial evidence, is that he
knew much of love in man)^ phases, its joys, its jeal-
ousies, its pains, its pettinesses, etc. And it is fair to
suppose that he learned it from more or less actual
experience. However, just what experiences, or
when, or where, is a pretty bold assumption without
a deal of corroborating evidence. A particular poem
may have been prompted by the caprices of a friend,
by a passing observation, by a hint from a book, a
play, a thousand and one things besides a specific
experience of jealous love or wounded vanity. And
many poems have no doubt been inspired by the
very lack of the passion they describe, which, denied,
finds solace In imagination. The satisfied lover
needs no poem of ecstacy; his beloved Is his poem.
The despairing lover needs no verse of woe; his
broken heart Is his cry. It would not do to push
this theory to its ultimate logic, but there is some-
thing In it. However, we merely want to emphasize
the absurdity of attempting to fix a specific ex-
perience to an expressed sentiment, while granting
that one who writes profoundly of an emotion has
known it from experience, which is exactly what
we mean by "internal evidence," But that a par-
ticular flesh-and-blood Phyllis jilted the poet on the
particular morning in May on which he sings Is fat
fetched. There Is a deal too much of this kind of
evidence in the biographies of Catullus; more than
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? CATULLUS 23
the facts allow.
About a hundred and twenty lyrics are extant
(many of them very short) that, with good au-
thority, can be assigned to Catullus. They touch
all kinds of subjects, whimsical, delicate, tender,
passionate. One of the most graceful, for example,
is written on the death of his sweetheart's pet bird ;
another to a friend who has sent him a book of bad
verse. There is a tender and touching lament at
the tomb of his dead brother; a biting lampoon on
the bad manners of a social parasite who stole a nap-
kin at a dinner; and dozens of love lyrics, ecstactic,
ardent, brimming with joy, weighted with grief, or
lightly and gracefully whimsical. These lyrics run
the whole gamut of erotic experience.
It is this range of feeling that gives Catullus im-
mortality. He is not great in the sense that Virgil
or Horace is. He lacks the lofty idealism of the
one, the broad philosophy of the other. But if he is
not humanly great he is greatly human. You read
Virgil with reverence and inspiration; Horace, with
relish and delight; Catullus w^ith joy and tears.
Like Burns, he touches the hearts of men, and the
human heart does not change very much. Two
thousand years ago this young Roman, hot blooded,
tender hearted, sensitive souled, poured out his life
in song. Simple they were, these songs, ingenuous
and sincere. Today we read them with emotion,
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? 24 CATULLUS
for we understand the feeling, though we cannot
sing the songs. There is a felicity in song-making
God-given. Most of us write with ink; Catullus
dipped his pen in fire and dew -- and sometimes
venom. Burns knew the art, and so did Heine.
There's a man of Catullus' stripe -- Heine. Song-
makers -- those three -- and they sent the singing
word down the ages to set men's heart strings throb-
bing in accord.
And so we con Catullus' Latin lyrics. They have
something for us still, a melody and a theme tran-
scending language, or rather, belonging to all langu-
age. That is why we try to translate them, to trans-
fer the idea and the tone to a medium that will
reach the modern ear, preserving the flavor of the
original as far as possible, changing word, phrase,
and figure to fit today's way of expressing itself
when touched by the same world-old passion. This
we do not claim to have succeeded in doing, but
it is what we have tried to do. It may be thought
over-bold to translate ad claras Asiae volemus
urbes (XLVI) into:
Dawn flames crimson, luring eastward,
Asians magic blooms unfold.
Golden cities nod and beckon.
Who can tell what joys they hold?
However, in our opinion, this is just what trans-
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? CATULLUS 25
lation requires. For while the original has no such
images, it has a tone, flavor, or whatever you may
call it, that suggests them, and the translation must
meet this in some way.
Translations are often failures because they sound
like translations. To translate the word and not
the thought is false; to catch the thought and miss
the spirit is no less false; and to make labored
what was spontaneous is falsest of tM. Therefore,
the translation must have a kind of spontaniety of
its own, an English originality, as it were. Thus
we have used rhyme where the Latin does not be-
cause in English the lyric quality of verse largely
depends on rhyme. And in this faith have we taken
such liberties of interpretation.
Another generation will no doubt essay its own
translation. We have written as we have read.
The University of Montana^
Missoula,
January J IQ15
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? SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS
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? CATULLUS
I
To whom shall I offer this book, young and spright-
ly,
Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished po-
litely?
To you, my Cornelius, whose learning pedantic,
Has dared to set forth in three volumes gigantic
The history of ages -- ye gods, what a labor! --
And still to enjoy the small wit of a neighbor.
A man who can be light and learned at once, sir,
By life's subtle logic is far from a dunce, sir.
So take my small book -- if it meet with your favor.
The passing of years cannot dull its sweet savor.
29
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? 30 CATULLUS
II
Sweet bird, my Lady's dear delight,
Her breast thy refuge fair;
Ah, could'st thou know thy happiness
To be so sheltered there!
She gives her dainty finger tip
To thy sharp little bill
In sportive play -- a ruse, I trow,
Her longing love to still.
Ah, would that I, like her, might give
Such solace to my grief.
Might cool my absent heart's fierce fire
In such a sweet relief.
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? CATULLUS 31
III
Let Venus bow her head in grief,
And tears drown Cupid's eyes in sorrow,
And men of feeling everywhere
Forget to smile-- until tomorrow.
My lady's little bird lies dead,
The bird that was my lady's prize
And dearer than her eyes -- alas,
Those pretty, tender, tear-dimmed eyes!
It knew its mistress quite as well
As she her mother; near her breast
It fluttered ever, chirping soft
And in her bosom found its rest.
Now does it seek the darksome way,
Whence none return nor message bring --
Accursed be, ye deadly shades,
That vanquish every lovely thing!
Ah, cruel deed! poor little bird
A-flutter in your gloomy skies!
From her you've snatched her pretty pet;
From me, the brightness of her eyes.
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? 32 ^ CATULLUS
V
Come, let us live and love, my dear,
A fig for all the pratings drear
Of sour old sages, w^orldly w^ise.
Aye, suns may set again to rise;
But as for us, when once our sun
His little course of light has run,
An endless night we'll sleep away.
Then kiss me, sweet, while kiss we may.
A thousand kisses, hundreds then.
And straightway we'll begin again --
Another thousand, hundreds more.
And still a thousand as before.
Till hundred thousands we shall kiss.
And lose all count in drunken bliss,
Lest green-eyed envy, in dull spite,
Should steal away our deep delight.
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? CATULLUS 33
VII
You ask me, love, how many kisses
Shall surfeit me with burning blisses.
As many as the grains of sand
That burn on Airic's spicy strand
Between Jove's shrine of mystic gloom
And ancient Battus' sacred tomb,
Or as the countless stars that light
Sweet secret loves in moonless night.
So many kisses, not one less.
Might soothe Catullus' mad distress.
And let no curious gossip cloy
With evil tongue our perfect joy.
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? 34 CATULLUS
VIII
Catullus, cease to play the fool,
Consider what is past as past,
Bright days have shown for you, 'tis true;
Such days, you know, can never last.
Bright days have shown -- ah, that was when
You danced attendance to the maid,
More truly loved by you, of course.
Than e're was loved a heartless jade.
And then how many happy days
Were passed in loving by you both ;
You, loyal, eager, ardent, keen,
The maiden, also, nothing loth.
But now the maid no longer cares;
Then, what do you care? Never sigh,
Nor follow after when she flees,
Be obdurate and say goodby.
But as for you, reluctant girl.
Alone j^ou'll sit and grieve all day ;
For who will love you, call you fair.
When your Catullus stays away?
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? CATULLUS 35
IX
Veranus, best of all my friends,
Had I ten thousand others,
You're coming home, to your own hearth.
Your mother and dear brother? .
You're coming home -- oh, happy thought!
I'll see you safe and hear you
Tell happy tales of far-off lands,
The while we're gathered near you.
Your arms about my neck, I'll press
On lips and eyes fond kisses --
Oh, happy men o'er all the earth;
Who knows such joy as this is?
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? 36 CATULLUS
XIII
Come dine with me, Fabullus, do.
You shall dine well, I promise you.
If Fates are kind, and if you bring
Along with you the needful thing --
A dinner bountiful and fine,
A pretty girl, new salt, old wine,
And topping all a hearty laugh,
Mirth, jest, and wit and friendly chaff --
If these you bring, old friend, I swear.
That you shall dine on royal fare.
Catullus' purse is full -- but hold!
Of musty cobwebs -- now don't scold;
For in his turn, he'll offer you
A pure delight both rare and new.
An unguent, perfume -- what you will --
No name its qualities can fill.
More fragrant, elegant, more sweet,
Than ever you have chanced to meet.
A balm in which the gods might lave,
Which Venus to my mistress gave.
You'll say, when once you've smelled the stuff,
I haven't praised it half enough.
And pray the gods, without repose.
To make you nothing else hut nose.
Note. -- Unguents and perfumes, together with gar-
lands, were valued by the ancient Romans at their feasts
quite as highly as the viands.
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? CATULLUS 37
XIV
Did I not love you more than my own eyes,
Sweet Calvus, for this gift I'd hate you quite,
With all of old Vatinius' spleen and spite.
What have I done or said, in any wise.
That you should kill me off with this vile verse ?
And may misfortune hit the miscreant hard
Who sent to you the book of such a bard ;
Unless, as I suspect, 'twas Sulla's curse --
A pedant, he, and critic who might send
A book like this and call it witty stuf? .
Then I don't care, it can't be bad enough;
It serves you right for having such a friend.
Great gods! the wretched and accursed smutch!
And you must send the thing to me straightway,
That I be bored to death the live long day.
On Saturnalia too -- this is too much!
Don't think, my witty friend, I'm done with you;
At dawn straight to the book stalls shall I fly.
And gather all the vile stuflE I can buy,
Suffenus, Caecii, the whole rank crew,
And pay you back in kind, with interest too.
Meanwhile, farewell -- ye would-be bards depart
To that dark place from which ye drew your art,
And take your darling books along with you !
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? 3S CATULLUS
XXVI
Due on my fair estate there falls
Not north wind, south wind, east nor west;
But there falls due ten thousand pounds,---
All winds at once -- oh shrivelling pest!
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? CATULLUS 39
XXVII
Come boy, and pour for me a cup
Of old Falernian. Fill it up
With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear;
Our host decrees no water here.
Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew,
The sluggish thin their blood with dew.
For such pale stuff we have no use;
For us the purple grape's rich juice.
Begone, ye chilling water sprite;
Here burning Bacchus rules tonight!
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? 40 CATULLUS
XXX
Art thou, Alfenus, false, forgetful, too.